


I'm Going Crazy, Do You Want to Come with Me?

by OriginalCeenote



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Circus Kid Clint Barton, Competency Kink, Dissociation, Flashbacks, Interrupted Brainwashing, M/M, Mentions of past child abuse, So much angst, Tall Clint, The Winter Soldier's Trigger Words, Touch-Starved, Whump, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, Winterhawk Valentine's Day Blind Date Exchange for drgrlfriend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:21:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22769242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: Summary: The Carson Carnival of Traveling Wonders. The Barton brothers took refuge under its tattered big top and learned the life after the tragic crash that left them orphans.Clint Barton meets the Winter Soldier on a sticky summer night when he wanders out of the shadows and lives to tell the tale… to the Avengers.
Relationships: James “Bucky” Barnes/Clint Barton - Relationship
Comments: 34
Kudos: 96
Collections: Winterhawk Valentine's Day 2020 Blind Date Exchange





	1. Follow Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dr_girlfriend](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dr_girlfriend/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: The Carson Carnival of Traveling Wonders. The Barton brothers took refuge under its tattered big top and learned the life after the tragic crash that left them orphans.
> 
> Clint Barton meets the Winter Soldier on a sticky summer night when he wanders out of the shadows and lives to tell the tale… to the Avengers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: This is my offering for my Winterhawk Valentines Day Blind Date. It’s… angsty. Whoops.

The stench of popcorn grease and cotton candy was cloying, overwhelming to the Asset’s senses. He wandered through the crowd in a silent, pensive stalk, innocuous and unremarkable in the stiff, dark Wrangler’s and plaid red shirt. Unlike the rest of the patrons, his skin was winter-pale, despite that the remote Iowa county enjoyed its hottest summer in the past eight years. If anyone found it odd that his sleeves were unrolled and buttoned neatly at the cuffs, no one mentioned it; his argent eyes stared out vacantly from beneath the battered cowboy hat, discouraging even casual greetings.

He took another mindless sip of the sweating lemonade clutched in his right hand as he wandered the perimeter of the fairgrounds. The garish attractions made pebbles drop into his pool of memories, causing ripples that made the Asset shiver. The fortune teller booth. The bearded lady. The hammer swing that he knew was rigged, less out of logic and more from experience. The images inside his head were an anomaly, brightly colored and festive, bobbing and fluttering amidst the thick, dark murk of his thoughts. _Try it again, Buck, and put your back into it this time._ The Asset couldn’t quite place the voice, deep and humor-filled, with an accent that he somehow placed as “Brooklyn” with its flat vowels and nasal burr. The Asset recalled its owner, strangely, on those rare nights when he slept long enough to dream, instead of in furtive snatches between missions. Blond, slight. Cantankerous. Mouthy. Yet… kind. 

The Asset fishes a pair of dark sunglasses out of his back pocket and puts them on, feigning interest in a teenaged wandering juggler as he maintained three bowling pins in the air and managed to tip his hat to a woman pushing a cranky toddler in a stroller. 

Hot. Loud. Crowded. Too much. The Asset almost longs for the icy, endless burn of the tank and its promise of silence and solitude. The mission, on its surface, was simple enough. Identify target. Assess target and identify appropriate sanction. Eliminate target. Report. Debrief. Furlough.

That’s what his handlers called it. _Quarantine_ was certainly more accurate. Or perhaps _confinement._ You protected an asset, surely. No different from sheathing a finely honed sword or holstering a .38. You protected it. You hefted it in your hand and tested its swing, or you respected its kick when you pulled the trigger. Didn’t you.

_Didn’t you._

“Didn’t you remember to go to the bank like I told you yesterday? You were supposed to deposit the money.”

“I deposited it. You just forgot. I left you your cash in your drawer, like I always do.”

“Bullshit. M’gonna kick your ass if you’re lying.”

Clint huffed as Barney strode toward the shabby chest of three drawers and jerked open the top one. He dug around and found the folded wad of bills and counted them, slapping them quickly down and muttering out ten, twenty, thirty under his breath. Clint toyed with one of his arrows, smoothing down the ruffled nock over and over between his finger and thumb.

“This wasn’t all of it?” Barney accused.

“I took a twenty,” Clint admitted. “I had to put gas in the car.”

“Dumbfuck,” Barney hissed, turning on him and hitting his temple with the heel of his hand. “Fuck is _wrong_ with you. I told you, a buddy of mine owes me a favor. You didn’t have to pay for gas. Now we’re short!”

“We’ve still got rent,” Clint argued, even though they could barely call the shithole they were squatting in a home. The mildewy, dank little trailer they could at least call theirs after the bank came to their parents’ farm and took everything, down to the last tractor tire a month after Mom and Pop died in that crash. God only knew what Barney had done for his buddy as a “favor,” and there were some things Clint had learned not to ask.

That brought them here. In the dark, middle of the night, after Barney snuck them out through the window of that group home. After the tenth consecutive night in a row of the older kids sneaking into his room and dragging him out of his bunk to do only God knew what to him, no matter how much he begged ‘em to leave him alone, Barney finally gave back as good as they got. The knife he left in Owen’s ribs was a statement; he grabbed Clint, righted his shabby, faded pajamas, checked him over for mere seconds, and ordered him in a rough whisper to grab what he could of his stuff, because they were getting the hell out. Clint remembered carrying his shoes clutched against his chest, because they didn’t have any time for him to put them on, while Barney managed to snatch the wheeled suitcase that was a gift from the county agency that placed - dumped - them there, and they darted off into the cold night. Clint’s feet smarted and stung, nearly frostbitten, and his tears left his cheeks cold and clammy. He didn’t know how far they ran, then stumbled, then eventually limped down the road, until they saw the gaudy golden lights in the distance. An already peeling billboard told them the circus’ first show was three nights away. _The Carson Carnival of Traveling Wonders._ Barney saw it and dragged Clint after him with renewed determination, even while Clint dug in his heels. He was exhausted and limp, balking at being pulled along any further.

“I can’t keep up! I can’t do this! I need to rest, Barn! Please! Let me sit down for a minute!”

Barney’s lips thinned, and without warning, his fist swung out and clipped Clint in the temple. He staggered back and clutched his bruised flesh, sobbing and staring at the only person in the world that he had left. Barney stood there in the dark, rangy and skinny, dark red hair a tousled wreck. Chest heaving. Eyes flinty, hard chips that gleamed down at Clint, illuminated by the headlights of passing cars. Clint barely recognized him, then. This wasn’t the same boy who used to huddle next to him in their blanket forts watching cartoons with him, smuggling them boxes of Pop Tarts and hiding with him up in the hay loft so that their dad wouldn’t find them and make them do their chores. Barney looked hard and cold, with a stiff set to his shoulders and jaw. It was the first time Clint ever felt afraid of his brother.

It wouldn’t be the last.

“Look, dumbass. You can’t be a baby about this. We’ve gotta keep moving. What do you want? Do you want us to end up in juvie? Huh? Is that what you want? You wanna never see me again? Because you won’t. They’ll let you rot there all alone. You know what they do to kids like you in juvie? You think those other guys were bad? You won’t make it. Not if you’re a baby.”

Clint stared up at him through blurry eyes, huffing and choking back sobs. He mopped his cheeks with the back of his hand and straightened up. “M’not a damned baby.”

“Then, get up. Let’s go. Maybe they will let us stay with them for a while.”

Which was a lie. Barney had no intention of asking them for a place to stay, when simply sneaking into one of the garish, dirty trailers and hiding in the dressing room closet managed to keep them warm for the night. Barney crept into the concession bar the next morning and swiped them some tepid hot dogs and a couple of bags of chips, arguing with Clint that it was better than the watery excuse for oatmeal and scrambled eggs that the group home would have shoved down their throats, anyway. Barney found a green apron and put it on, posing as a vendor, and the guy manning the cart didn’t question it; half these kids were temporary for the summer, anyway, answering the call for hire with the flyers clutched in their fists. All of ‘em were willing to work under the table. That was just how Carson ran his business, and the circus wasn’t his only line of business. After two days of selling snacks and general grifting around the carnival, the guy working the ticket booth finally caught Barney, and he confessed that his brother was laying low, too. A big, scary guy covered in tattoos and sporting a harelip dragged Clint up alongside Barney and shoved the two of them inside the fairgrounds’ office.

Carson stared at the two of them somberly, taking in their dirty clothing, unkempt hair and nails, and general starveling appearance. “You two have been squatting around here, huh? Don’t you have anywhere else to go?”

“Maybe we always wanted to join the circus,” Barney lied.

“Barney,” Clint began, but Barney hissed at him, “Shut up…!” His blue-gray eyes darted toward his brother furtively, imploring him to let him do all the talking.

“Know how many times I’ve heard that, kid?” Carson huffed and reached into his pocket for a pearl-handled Zippo and a cigar. He bit off the end and spit it out, then lit it, sucking on it until the end flared with orange-gold embers and filled the tiny, cramped office with its acrid stench. “Bet neither one of you’s got any actual skills.” He was middle aged, crusty and plump, with heavy bags under his rheumy blue eyes and strange, warty growths under his chin… chins. Guy wasn’t gonna win any beauty contests, that was for damned sure. Clint tried and failed not to stare. Carson just stared back, amused at his temerity.

“Bet we do,” Barney bragged. “I can do a mean shell game. And I can do card tricks.”

“So can anyone already on my crew shoveling elephant shit, kid. Nice try.”

“We could be clowns,” Barney suggested.

“Got enough of those. Why don’t the two of you get moving along back to the playground, boys.”

“I can shoot arrows!” Clint piped up. Barney swore and threw up his hands, but old man Carson chuckled.

“What was that, Peewee?”

“Arrows,” muttered the tall, lanky man leaning his hip against the edge of the desk. Duquesne, they’d heard Carson call him. Guy had a skinny mustache and looked a little like Errol Flynn from the old Robin Hood movie that their mother had loved. He folded his arms. “Where’d you learn how to do that, kid?”

“On our farm. I’ve got a good eye, just ask my-“ Clint realized his mistake and clapped his mouth shut. Barney made an aggrieved noise and raised his hand to cuff him.

“Easy, kid. Knock it off. Let your brother try to win us over and change our minds.”

Clint felt a dizzy rush, and his skin broke out into a cold sweat. His stomach twisted dangerously as he realized that “winning them over” was the difference between being allowed to stay, or being dumped back at the group home. And who knew what would happen to Barney, if the court decided to upgrade him to juvie, or even real jail? Clint’s mouth went dry, and his voice sounded childishly high to his own ears, cracking a little as the words came out in a rush.

“I can shoot with a bow, up close and from far away! And- and, you have guys who ride horses, right? They do tricks? You could teach me riding tricks, I can already ride a pony, it wouldn’t be that hard! I’ve got an eye sharp as a hawk’s! Look, just give us a chance? What- wait, what if I shot an arrow while I was riding on horseback?”

Duquesne chuckled. Carson told him “I’d pay money to see that, kid, but I don’t know about the rest of the crowd. And that’s even if you actually knew what you were doing, which I highly doubt.”

Clint felt a flash of annoyance. “Maybe you’re just jealous,” he told Duquesne. “I might end up being your best act and make _you_ look bad.”

“Oh, ho!” The laughter became louder and more deprecating, and Clint knew he hated this man, now, and the obstacle he posed to his and his brother’s safety. They were on the verge of being thrown out on their asses, and all this guy could do was _laugh._ But there was no malice in his eyes.

“Listen to Shorty, here. Fine. Know what? I needed the laugh. Betcher gonna give me another one before the day is through, kid. C’mon. Let’s get these bastards up on a horse!”

Clint’s stomach dropped into his shoes, and he grew dizzy with the realization that they actually wanted him to _perform_ to prove himself.

Barney looked just as sick as they dragged them out into the tent, this time greeted by a hail of jeers from Carson’s crew of carnies and stage hands.

“Get ready for a show, fellas. Got a couple of real daredevils here. This one,” he emphasized, giving Clint a little shake, “is a real _hawkeye!_ ”

A rough-looking, burly man with a stiffly waxed mustache and shiny bald pate strode forward, already garbed in a glittering red unitard. He was large enough to guarantee nobody was gonna talk shit about his costume. Any other day Clint would have gotten a kick out of it. 

He smirked down at Clint and Barney, and Clint felt a twinge of resentment when his older brother told him, “Leave him alone, or you’ll answer to me!”

_Now, he wanted to speak up?_ Yet Clint fought the urge to huddle closer to him, because part of him craved his protection. Barton brothers stuck together, through thick and through thin.

...right?

“I don’t know if I trust this one,” he said, nodding to Barney, “with sharp objects. Look at that red hair. And he looks too feisty. C’mere, Goldilocks,” he teased as he roughly grabbed Clint and dragged him toward what looked like a range set up with tattered cork targets. Clint sucked in a breath when he saw the enormous wheel marked with a painted outline of a body, featuring wrist and ankle manacles meant to hold a person - a living target - in place while it spun, But Clint soon found a bow and arrow shoved into his hands. “Here. Show us what you can do.”

Clint let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Fine,” he huffed as he stepped up to the fading white line painted over the dying grass. He widened his stance, angled his body, and nocked the arrow, already regretting the lack of an armguard in his short-sleeve, thin t-shirt. He breathed and said a tiny prayer, pulled back the string, and let it fly.

_THUNK!_

Two inches from center, Just barely in the yellow, but good enough to make a statement. He heard Barney’s low, muttered “Holy shit!” behind him and bit his lip.

*

“Holy shit, Clint. Purple? It had to be purple?”

“You wish you could get away with it,” he shrugged as he shimmed into the ridiculous satin briefs that went under the tunic… well, fuck it. It was a minidress. There was no way around it.

“Nice legs, Casanova.” Barney snorted.

“You jealous?” Clint scoffed back. “Sounds to me like you are.” Clint didn’t add that Barney was just bitter because his younger brother finally passed him in height. At six-three, nobody under the big top called him Shorty or Peewee anymore.

“Nah. Just looks like you got lost on the way to the roller derby, dumbass.” Clint ran his hand over the broad patch of sequins trimming the top half; Clint refused to think of it as a bodice, even after Clementine, the circus’ resident bearded lady, explained to him that was exactly what you called the “shirt” half of a dress. Clint oiled up his skin and began to apply the iridescent body glitter generously. Again, not his preference, but… it got the crowd’s attention, didn’t it?

And of course Barney brought up the roller derby. Clint had _loved_ it that one time that Barney took him when he was sixteen, when Carson slipped a little extra something into their pay envelope - cash he still doled out under the table - and Clint fell in love with the sheer, unabashed roughness and sass of the competitors, the tiny costumes, and the random fights that broke out before the whistle blasted. Some of the women who competed wore the body glitter, too, and Clint had to admit, it was a _look_.

His own costume was patterned after a Greek tunic (supposedly, but he wasn’t about to suggest that Carson and his carnies had never been to Greece, so how would they know?) and it draped and dipped in all the right places. The show flyer penned him as “The Modern Day Apollo, the Amazing HAWKEYE!” And… yeah, Clint could work with it. Right?

The briefs kept his junk from flapping in the breeze and kept the show family friendly, even though some of the floor acrobats wore costumes that were a lot cheekier than Clint’s, and just as much glitter. But the risque, mildly tattered costumes, missing a few sequins or rhinestones here, or a little threadbare there, looked _amazing_ under the big top spotlight, and the most important part? His wasn’t flammable. 

“Hey. I’m gonna meet up with Trick for drinks later. After we close up. Thinking about that little sports bar that sells the hot wings.”

“Nah,” Clint mused, not even wavering over his choice. “I just wanna kinda hang out tonight. I don’t feel like going into town.”

“Bullshit! C’mon. You know you do.”

“You guys aren’t gonna miss me if I just stay here,” Clint told him. Trick - Buck, if that was even his real name, either - could hold his liquor and told decent jokes, but sometimes, Clint didn’t feel like spending his downtime with any of his “work friends.” Because, y’know. Who wanted to be an alibi for anybody else in this business, which was starting to feel less like a “business” and more of an albatross around Clint’s neck. “Unless you want me to show up at the bar looking like this?” Clint pulled on the short, curly blond wig and adjusted it, tweaking the lace front into place. He added the purple leather headband with its ridiculous laurel leaves that curled around his brow just so. Long, leather bracers slid up his taut, rippling biceps, and he tugged on the boots that managed to give the get-up a swashbuckler feel. Clint sighed. Barney was right; he looked like a yutz. Well.

It was a living.

*

This wasn’t living, whatever this was. 

The Asset watched the floor acrobats with cold disinterest, despite the odd sparks of recall triggered by the red sequins and the tinny sounding music wafting through the tent. He had an impression of red, white and blue stars and toned legs, of lips painted ruby red. The USO tour, some voice in his head supplied. _That one looked like she liked you, Sarge. Go get her number and maybe buy her a chocolate bar, or some silk stockings!_ The Asset couldn’t remember being liked. Trusted. Rusted.

Searing pain lanced through his temples. He shook it off.

His mark showed up to the circus with his family in tow, unforeseen but hardly an obstacle. Middle-aged and well fed. Florid and graying around the temples. The briefing listed him among Howard Stark’s colleagues, the last known survivor of the research team that created the Supersoldier serum. Per the briefing, the target had sold Hydra’s intellectual property and transcripts from the research meetings, recordings of critical phone calls, and had compromised Hydra’s contacts within SHIELD. Hydra has a long memory and little patience for unsanctioned activities among its ranks.

Reshaping history. Restoring order. These were the Asset’s sole function following each activation and briefing. His mark would go down easily with a nerve poison-tipped dart to the temple. Assessing… assessing. Failure rate: Less than .009 percent. The Asset could execute the shot from a distance of roughly five hundred yards, even taking into account the darkened interior of the tent and the awkward trajectory. 

He drifted through the crowd and found the crawl space beneath the bleachers; a small section of space was recessed into the ground and draped with a black tarp. The Asset couldn’t fathom the intended purpose of this nook, but he took advantage of it. It would work for his purposes, to keep him out of sight. He changed out of the simple togs into his dark flak suit and jacket, despite the still-oppressive summer heat.

The Asset paused for a few seconds, drinking in the cacophony of music and chatter, hearing the screams from the midway as they drifted up in waves from the rollercoaster and Tilt-a-Whirl. Watched a group of guests through a gap in the tent try their luck at the shooting counter, aiming squirt rifles into the chute to send the cars racing down the track-

“Coulda made more money down at the track,” Barney grumbled as he counted what money they had left, shoving half of it into his pocket. “Come out with us.”

“I’m good,” Clint argued as he made one last adjustment to his costume and scooped up his bow. Barney huffed, shrugging.

“Your loss. You need to get shitfaced. And laid. You need to get laid, too.”

“Speak for yourself, asshole.”

Barney’s brows quirked, and he folded his arms, leaning back against the shabby dressing table. “What? You holding out on me, Clint? You got somebody?”

“Nobody you need to know.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. You’re just talking shit. You ain’t got nobody. Quit dressing like Tinkerbell, and maybe you’ll get some.”

“Chicks dig the glitter.”

“Sure, they do.” Then Barney sidled up close to him and gripped his forearm. “Hey. Remember what you have to do.” He handed Clint the pair of dark glasses. “Put these on when you ride out of the ring before the knife act.”

Clint sighed. “This again…”

“Hey.” Barney lightly slapped him on the chest. “It’s a living. We’ve had it a lot softer here than anywhere else that’d hire a pair of high school dropouts. You wanna work out on the roadside? Or at the car wash? Mickie Dee’s?” Barney’s expression was jeering and hard. “Yeah. Just ride around on your pretty white horsey, Glitter Boy.”

“It… it’s Hawkeye,” he corrected him. Clint sighed again. “One of these days, we’ll all get caught.”

“Not today.”

Clint couldn’t remember a time in his life since his parents were killed that “tomorrow” felt _guaranteed_. When he wasn’t worried about his next meal or affording his light bill, or wondering from one minute to the next if they wouldn’t get ripped off by one of the other carnies or get their asses kicked. They lived from one grift to the next, and Clint Barton didn’t have a damned clue what he was doing. He just woke up every morning in his shabby secondhand bedding and _he did it_.

*

Greasepaint. Elephant dung. Popcorn. Hay. So many smells to assault the senses.

Clint watched the ringmaster, Maynard, give his spiel in his big, ridiculous top hat trimmed in a rich, white satin ribbon under the spotlight, and he watched the small medallion that adorned the ribbon begin to whirl. Unnoticed by the crowd, the medallion gave a tiny pulse and sent out sound waves that… well, Clint had no way of describing what they did. Except, yeah. It put the crowd into a trance, so that Carson’s goons could wander through the bleachers and stands and rob folks of their crap. Clint felt guilty about it, sure. Thing is, he figured that carnivals were full of scams, anyway, under the guise of being a legit business. Fortune tellers? Scam. Shell game? Scam. Baseball toss? Scam. Ring toss? Scam. The hucksters in the Home and Garden tent selling miracle cleaner and weight loss tonics? Scam. So what was a little ~~okay a lot of it~~ petty theft? Of course the crowd was watching the ringmaster, and even if they weren’t, the drumheads in the orchestra pit, the clown car wheels, the big klieg light in the center of the big top, hell, even the big, spinning knife thrower’s wheel, all of those surfaces featured the same spiraling, hypnotic seal whirling at just the right frequency to put the crowd into a trance.

That wasn’t Clint’s problem yet. The wheels weren’t spinning yet, not while Clint was performing his act. He rode into the ring to the blaring music and thunderous applause, tearing into the center ring hell-for-leather and shooting the first target while he was in motion. _Bullseye,_ dead center. 

“A modern-day Robin Hood, ladies and gents! HAWKEEEEYYYYYYYE!”

It was a rush. Clint still wasn’t sick of this part. He kept riding at a nice, even trot and fired his arrow at the next two targets. On the next shot, he nocked two arrows and tilted his bow, hitting both targets at the same time, his favorite parlor trick. The crowd went wild. Maybe they loved his talent. Maybe they loved his toned muscles and the skimpy costume. Maybe he reminded them of Captain America, a fabled hero of old with his golden boy good looks; Clint could have stepped out of the newspaper comics and he was dripping with charisma that he didn’t feel. _A modern-day Robin Hood._ Shit, folks didn't know the _half_ of it.

Clint thinks back to when his parents earned an honest living, even when they were just scraping by. Pop fixed the furnace himself, because, and Clint remembered him saying it, “We sure as shit can’t afford to have someone else come out here and do it.”

God, those were the days…

The flames leaping up at them from under the gangplank made Bucky feel like they were hovering over a furnace. The heat licked up red-hot, making sweat bead up on his flesh, and he almost longed for the cold, stone slab beneath his back that Steve freed him from only minutes before.

Schmidt tore away his own flesh, revealing the blood red visage underneath, grinning evilly at them from across the gangplank. The vision would haunt Bucky for the rest of his days, and nights. Then, Zola got a hold of him once more, dragging him in from the stinging, brittle snow, and the true hell began.

The Asset sensed a shift in the crowd, listening to the rise in volume of their cheers. He watched from his vantage point just beyond the tightrope ledge. The acrobats were still warming up below him and hadn’t climbed up yet, leaving him to occupy the shadows. His mark was in the fourth row of the bank of bleachers, just left of the center ring. Easy pickings. 

The crowd was mesmerized by the figure in purple expertly riding the large, white stallion around the ring. His physique was powerful and elegant. His height, the breadth of his shoulders and narrow hips, his golden blond hair… the impression gave him pause, stirring old memories. 

_Let’s hear it for the amazing Hawkeye!_

… _let’s hear it for Captain America!_

His finger trembled around the stock of the rifle.

The Asset suppressed the shivers that ran through him. 

He watched the poetic grace as the archer pulled back and loosed the arrows, neatly splitting the one already jutting from the center of the target. Masterful. Flawless. The Asset cracked a smile beneath the snug mask enclosing the lower half of his face. The gesture felt unfamiliar… yet… he longed for a reason. 

Longing.

Clint remembered feeling it when they first showed up under the big top. Whenever he watched the families of kids sitting squeezed up tight against their parents, watching in awe as Morty ate fire, or the Gonzalez twins clasped hands each time they released from the trapeze. Whenever he saw dads walking around hauling those huge stuffed bears after winning round after round of the dart throw, or if they somehow managed to figure out the trick to the ring toss. Clint missed belonging to someone. _This is my younger son, Clint. Kid’s a chip off the ol’ block._ Yeah. He missed that shit more than he could ever describe.

This time, though, the kids were staring up at him, awed and amazed. That felt good. That strange, skin-prickling, warm fuzzy kind of good. Clint almost felt sorry that his act was just one more distraction in a long line of smoke screens and flim-flam that would make it easier for Maynard, Carson and his crew to rob these poor folks blind.

Clint stood on the saddle this time, planting his foot inside the special, nearly hidden stirrup just above the edge of the saddle blanket, and he fired another arrow at a post marked with gold tassels. He did the same thing with a pyramid of green glass bottles. Ping, ping, ping! It was gonna suck for Stan and his cleaning crew to sweep all that up after the show, but there was no help for it.

The Asset watched him, transfixed and so distracted that he almost forgot his mission. The crowd clapped, hooted and whistled while the archer took his bow in the gaudy, skimpy tunic. That made it ride up in the back, revealing more of those long, tanned thighs and the merest flash of his flanks.

The Asset smiled again, cocking his head.

“Give the Hawkeye a hand, folks! We’ve got more feats of daring and thrills coming up!”

The archer rode out of the ring, and in an instant, the Asset snapped back into the moment. Back to his mission. He found his mark in the crosshairs of his scope. The tiny red dot of light illuminated his forehead. He tried to fan it away, mistaking it for a lightning bug in the darkened interior of the tent.

The dart, loaded with nerve toxin, brought him down immediately, throwing him back just as the ringmaster’s wheels began to turn and glow, spirals slowly whirling and dragging the crowd under his thrall.

The Asset staggered back, feeling their strange pull, and he ducked back into the shadows, struggling to compose himself. He scrambled down the ladder with more speed than grace and darted off, escaping the crowded tent.

His mark lay twitching and gurgling, gasping in the stands, but the crowd didn’t notice. Carson’s men drifted up and down the steps, digging into pockets and handbags, slipping necklaces off, and watches, and rings. They looted the masses as the ringmaster directed their attention to the jugglers and floor acrobats, all of whom wore the special, dark-lensed goggles that weren’t just a costuming choice. Clint walked his horse back to the trailer out back after putting on his own pair. He went to watch the rest of the show from the edge of the tent, sighing.

It still beat Mickie Dee’s, didn’t it?

A motion out of the corner of his eye made him turn around, and he saw a darkly garbed figure with long, sable brown hair dart off into the crowd heading toward the midway games and rides, carrying a loaded duffel. “Fuck are you hurrying off for, guy?” he muttered. He was stealthy, muscular looking, even though he wasn’t only medium size. Wasn’t the first time Clint watched someone scuttling away on a busy night, and knowing Carson and the kinds of folks he kept company with, it wouldn’t be the last. Would it?

A half an hour later, though, when the lights came up, and Clint heard shrill screams and clamor coming from the tent and ambulance sirens coming from the parking lot, Clint paused in eating his hot dog. “Aw, no. This looks bad…”

The Asset stumbled into the men’s room with its questionably damp floors and overflowing trash can and locked himself into the disabled access stall. He ripped open the zipper on the duffel and rummaged for the discarded rancher clothes, draping them over the handrail. He fumbled with the belt and straps of the flak jacket, jerking them open and struggling free of its confines, craving the cool air against his sweaty flesh. He tugged the red plaid shirt back on, fingers shaking as he did up the buttons; even the metal fingers were unsteady. This wasn’t right. His programming faltered and stumbled. _Assessing. Evaluating._ His blood pressure was elevated and his body temperature failed to regulate. He was flushed and panting, unable to compose himself. The archer was a distraction. He’d worked past distractions before. The mark was eliminated. Sanction executed. It was time to report to his handlers for his debriefing and furlough.

He recognized the use of mood modifying technology. The crowd was in thrall. The Asset knew how it felt to respond to such a stimulus, even though this one had no chance to affect him the way that the culprits planned it. His superiors would hold strong opinions about the possibility of his protocols being breached by such simple tech, and of his mission being compromised, wouldn’t they?

He scrambled out of the black flak pants and boots and back into the Wranglers and Tony Lamas. He crammed his gear back into the duffel alongside his rifle and zipped it back up. The Asset hurried out of the bathroom stall and dashed cold water over his heated cheeks. He glanced at his own reflection and huffed. Unshaven. Drawn. Dark circles smudged the flesh beneath his eyes. The Asset knew he looked like hell. 

He emerged from the rest room and managed to stow the duffel behind a large green dumpster. His handlers would be waiting; he was due to meet at the retrieval point in a little over seven hours.

In the meantime, though…

The Asset craved some downtime. Just a chance to blend in and to not think.

He wandered out onto the midway, looking for another distraction.


	2. Just Got to Trust Me Even Though I’m Blind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint’s a hot mess. Bucky’s been out of the tank for too long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut. More angst. And smut. Oops…

“I’ve got my liability insurance, but don’t think you can come after me for this shit,” Carson barked to the police chief on the scene as he took down notes. “I don’t know that guy, and I don’t know shit about what happened to him!” His face was florid and his fists were clenched. He chewed on his cigar and waved vaguely at the ambulance and the paramedics carrying out the stretcher. The body was zipped up in one of those black shrouds, and Carson felt a little sick.

“As long as you’re following safety regulations to operate your carnival, no one’s coming after you.” The officer didn’t look satisfied, though. “No one saw anything?”

“My performers were doing their jobs,” Carson argued. “The audience was watching the show. I didn’t see shit. Did you?” he asked Barney, who attempted to look busy as he fought to keep a bundle of helium balloons untangled where the myriad strings were wrapped around his hand.

“No, Boss. It was dark inside,” he offered, shrugging. But Barney was sweating and breaking out in a cold rash. _Fuck._ This was above his pay grade. Trick didn’t mention anything in the works about a hit. Not on anyone they knew, anyway. Even Maynard was fretting about this, and as far as Barney knew, nothing fazed that guy. This job was clean. 

The boys in blue kept grilling Carson, jotting down more notes and giving him as many chances as possible to hang himself. They finally left, and he retired back to his office, threw back a shot of gin and lit up another cigar.

“I never signed up for this shit,” he muttered. “Just wanted to make an easy buck. Little traveling circus, just like my old man wanted when he came to this country. Land of fucking opportunity. ‘Bout time we left this shithole.”

Buck, or “Trick” as Barney often called him, reminded him “Thought we were gonna hang out here for another week.”

“Nah. We’re closing up shop tomorrow. Spread the word. We’re pulling up stakes, boys. Shit. A shooting makes folks nervous, anyway. You think anyone’s gonna show up here with their kiddies for cotton candy and a ride on the Ferris wheel?”

Barney sighed through his nose and pinched the bridge. “Fuck,” he muttered. They’d just gotten settled in. Comfortable, sort of. Clint would be disappointed, and even though Barney always tried to be the voice of reason with him, going on about “Never get too attached to where you’ve been,” he hated doing this to his brother again. How many times was he gonna hafta yank him along to stumble after him in the dark?

How many fucking times.

One more, apparently.

“One more,” Clint called out to the vendor over the edge of the crowd. Funny how a shooting wasn’t enough to make people go home. The crowd had thinned a little, until tongues began to wag. No one stayed inside the big top for the rest of the show - Clint didn’t blame ‘em a bit, and his own act was done for the night, anyway - but the midway was still packed. Maybe the line to the rollercoaster was a little shorter, and people still wanted to get their money’s worth out of their fare wristbands, those fucking things weren’t cheap.

The vendor loaded up another foot long, one half of it slathered with mustard and kraut, the other with chili and cheese. A freight car, one of Clint’s favorite treats after a busy night.

He headed back to his trailer and kicked the door shut behind him. Clint took a huge bite of the hot dog, not caring about the shreds of kraut and beans that dripped from it, threatening to ruin his costume. He was already tired of the itchy sequins. Clint set down the rest of his dinner on the cluttered dressing table and took off the wig, scratching his scalp with his blunt nails. His hair was a tousled wreck and needed a trim, but he’d looked worse. He set the wig and laurel crown on the stand and shucked his boots, letting his feet breathe. _Fuck, that feels good._

He walked outside for a minute, deciding the fetid air inside the trailer wouldn’t feel any fresher if he turned on the fan whose grate and blades were dripping with cobwebs and caked-on dust. Clint sat down on the three short steps, knees comfortably splayed wide, and he ate the rest of the hot dog in large, hungry bites, licking his fingers unabashed. This. This was familiar and comfortable. The faint breeze tickled his sweaty skin and ruffled the folds of his scant tunic. Clint lightly scratched his cheek, itching a little from the glitter and makeup.

This was never what he planned. Once upon a time, maybe he would have shown a calf or a sheep in a 4H show or as his high school AFA project, if he’d ever bothered with high school. Clint managed his GED, studying through correspondence in bits and snatches. This wasn’t the life he saw for himself as a kid. When the hell would he be able to put down roots?

Apparently not today. Barney came striding over. “Hey. Change out of that shit. Pack up. We’re leaving tomorrow.”

Clint threw up his hands, deflating immediately. “Seriously?!”

“No big deal. We just have to move some things around. Plans change.” Clint scowled up at him, but Barney was nonplussed. He swatted his younger brother upside the head and barked, “Grow up. When it’s time to go, ya gotta go.”

“Get the fuck offa me,” Clint muttered sourly. “Just… when? Huh? _When._ ” Clint stood up and paced the brief stretch of yard in front of the trailer. “Why the fuck do we keep doing this? When do we get to go out on our own?”

“Doing what?”

“We could work on a farm, for fuck’s sake! Or something. Anything that’s not moving God only knows how many times a month and working a grift.”

“We’re doing fine. Trick’s got a few plans. So does Duquesne. C’mon. They gave us a chance when we had nothing. You wanna tell either of ‘em to just piss off? Huh?” Barney grabbed Clint’s arm, squeezing it hard enough to bruise, and he jerked him close enough for Clint to see the small acne scars on his still-youthful skin and the flare of his nostrils. “Stop acting like you’re any better than the rest of us. You sure as shit ain’t, baby brother. You’re gonna do what I tell you, and you’re gonna pack up your shit and pack up the show, and we’re getting back on the road. And that’s it.”

“That’s not it,” Clint growled as he shook him off.

Barney’s lips thinned, and in a flash, Clint grunted, breath whooshed out of his lungs as Barney shoved him back against the side of the trailer hard enough to bite his tongue.

“You’re gonna hafta do shit that you don’t wanna do, Hawkeye,” Barney assured him. “That’s just life. Pack. Your shit.” Barney grabbed the front of his tunic and dropped it in distaste, and Clint shoved him roughly in umbrage.

“Fuck you, _fuck you_ ,” he hissed. His throat burned and his eyes stung a little, but he wouldn’t let Barney see him break.

“Not today,” his brother joked, but there was no malice in it. He turned his back on him, throwing back “By the time I get back, you’d better be packed. I’ll be with Trick, if anyone asks. Even if they ask, don’t tell ‘em shit.”

Clint waited for him to round the corner and enter the midway before he cursed, kicking a nearby empty milk crate across the yard. His toes burned and throbbed. Okay. Maybe he shouldn’t do that barefoot, next time…

He winced, minced and stumbled, cursing up a blue streak.

“You’re better with your hands, I guess,” a soft, rough voice suggested. That brought Clint up short, and he jerked around to face the source.

His mouth went dry. _Holy fuck._

The guy was compact, but good things came in small packages, didn’t they? Yeah. Anyway. This guy. _This guy._ He was checking a lot of Clint’s boxes just standing there. He leaned against the wall of the trailer, arms folded, with a cowboy hat pulled down over glacial, blue-gray eyes. 

“I’m great with my hands,” Clint agreed. “Didn’t you see me out there? I never miss.”

Well-shaped, deep pink lips curled in a smirk that lit Clint’s insides on fire. “Me, either.”

Clint’s interest was piqued. Guy was already overdressed for the humid night in that long-sleeved plaid shirt and those heavy Wranglers, but… damn, he wore ‘em well. His dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail, revealing the elegant line of his neck and the cords of muscle in his throat. His features were classic and sculpted, like a statue of the angel Gabriel come to life. 

There shadows under his eyes, like the guy never slept, and Clint felt that in his bones. They couldn’t be too much different, could they? Clint wanted to hear this guy’s story. He had to have one; he’d bet anything on it.

“Guess you’re not bad with your hands, either, then.”

He ducked his face for a moment, and something troubled flickered over it for a moment. He glanced down at his hands. One of them was gloved, which puzzled Clint, but he left it alone.

The Asset thought of the lives his hands had taken. Countless. He remembered all of them, no matter how often they wiped him.

Then he dropped them, hooking his thumbs into his front pockets as he shoved away from the trailer wall. 

“Maybe I want your opinion on the subject, ‘Hawkeye.’” Clint heard the hint of humor in his voice.

“How much time do you have to kill, buddy?”

“A few hours, maybe. I’m in no rush.”

The words felt strange on the Asset’s tongue. Like they were being spoken by someone else. Someone he forgot how to be.

“Do me a favor, though.”

“What?”

“Wanna keep the outfit on?”

A grin cracked Clint’s face. “Get the fuck outta here.” 

The Asset felt drawn in by the twinkle in those crystal blue eyes and the little crinkles at their corners. Sassy. The archer was sassy, seeming larger than life up close, yet… something inside him called out to him. Someone else he was trying to be. Someone _lost_.

“So, that’s a no?”

“What’s it worth to you if I keep it on, pal?”

A rusty chuckle escaped him. “Guess we’ll just have to find out, Hawkeye.”

Clint sized him up. He didn’t look like a grifter. A heavy, maybe. Not one of Carson’s regulars and probably not on his payroll. But this guy still looked like somebody shady lined his pockets. Clint couldn’t put his finger on it. This wasn’t a cornfed cowboy out for a night off the ranch. There was a whiff of danger about him, but Clint wanted to draw it deep into his lungs. 

“Want dinner first?” Clint suggested, as though the plans he had in mind for him involved other things. “I already ate.”

“I’m not that hungry.”

“Not even for a freight car dog?”

The Asset shivered. “Maybe not this time.”

“Too bad. You’re missing out.” Clint stepped back into his trailer, turning his back on him for a minute. He reached for a pair of battered leather sandals that actually worked better with the tunic. He shoved his feet into them and met the cowboy outside. “Hey. You got a name?”

The Asset shook his head. “No.”

Clint shrugged. “That’s fine.”

*

The Hawkeye’s voice grounded the Asset. Deep, cheerful, with pleasant rough edges. He swam in his sights, a treat to the eye in the garish purple costume, all toned muscle, broad shoulders and endlessly long legs. His cropped, spiky blond hair wasn’t as remarkable as the curly wig, but it suited the angles of his face. Clint led him through the crowd, back to the livestock tent. Carson’s Carnival showed up in town just as the local county fair happened, and the grounds reeked of manure and hay. Clint was used to it and wasn’t squeamish. He made a pleased noise at the sight of the stocky, gorgeous Clydesdales.

“Look at these beauties. Man, I love riding. Don’t you?”

The Asset shrugged. “I don’t ride.”

“Fuck. Really? I wouldn’t know that to look at you, pal.”

“I’m better with machinery.”

“Bet you could fix a tractor or a riding mower, no problem, then.”

The Asset huffed, shrugging. “Or a Jeep.”

“A mechanic? Nice!” Clint looked impressed.

Sure.

Clint reached out and stroked the horse’s side, despite the sign on the gate admonishing the crowds not to. But the large roan leaned into it, make little breathy, whuffling noises at him and lipping at Clint’s palms, looking for treats.

“Hey, pal. Hands off,” warned the man exhibiting the horse. “Read the sign.”

“Maybe I hate doin’ what I’m told,” Clint bragged.

“Guess I don’t blame you.”

No-Name leaned his arms over the metal bar of the gate, bending his knee and planting his booted foot on the lower rail. His posture was relaxed, and that pose emphasized the muscles in his thighs, mouthwatering as they were encased in the snug denim. Clint wanted to get his hands on him. All over him.

They went back out onto the midway, and Clint talked him into an old fashioned root beer. It was tempting to offer him something stronger, but the guy didn’t seem like a drinker. His eyes lit up at the first sip of the soda.

The flavor and burst of fizz on his tongue sparked another deep memory for the Asset. Root beer floats. Corn dogs. Coney Island, summer of ‘42. 

They stopped at the balloon dart toss and pretty much cleared the board between the two of them but eschewed the prizes.

“Shit’s loaded with asbestos,” Clint assured him. “Don’t take that shit home.”

“I never take souvenirs,” was the reply he got back. “I don’t get attached to… things.”

He remembered an old compass tucked into the Captain’s pocket, with a tiny wallet photo of a dewy-faced brunette with dark lipstick and impeccably coiled curls. 

“Just as well, I guess.” Clint led him to the ring toss, and they frittered away a little more cash. This guy had the trick to it figured out. The rings neatly landed over the necks of the bottles with musical clinks, ping, ping, ping. They left more of the huge stuffed animals behind in favor of wandering the park emptyhanded.

Until Clint reached back and grabbed his gloved hand. The Asset’s pulse jumped.

“Hey. C’mon. I haven’t been in the fun house in forever.”

The darkened interior made the Asset twitch and put him on high alert, but there were a scant number of guests inside. They made their way back through the corridors, senses assaulted by the haunting, discordant organ music and canned screams. Flickering lights illuminated their skin, and they walked past the mirrors as they distorted their reflections. Clint chuckled. “That one makes you look tall, pal.”

The Asset didn’t fight it when Clint gently gripped his shoulders and tugged him close to the longer, narrow mirror that stretched his reflection like chewing gum. His hands were strong and warm. The Asset huffed while the archer grinned behind him, just over his shoulder.

“My height’s never been a disadvantage before.”

“It ain’t gonna be today, either, cowboy.” Clint let his hands slip down his shoulders, down the length of his arms. He took his hand again and led him further back, through colored smoke and warping mirrors. He ducked them back behind a three-way mirror just past the main corridor, hearing a group of teenagers daring each other to chicken out of going the rest of the way through.

The kaleidoscope of colors thrown around the corridor from the revolving lights were reflected by No-Name’s eyes and by Clint’s, making the sequins and satin of his tacky costume glow. The Asset gave into the urge to reach for him, hands slipping around his waist to pull him close. Clint chuckled as he tipped his new friend’s hat back for easier access. Clint’s mouth tasted salty-sweet from the sauerkraut and root beer, and his body blazed hot beneath the satin. No-Name’s hands roamed over Clint’s body, the gloved one tightening around his hip. The other crept beneath the hem of his tunic and skimmed over his ass through the ridiculous briefs. Clint groaned with need as he kissed him back hard and deep, nipping at those lips and sucking them between his teeth. _Jesus_ , this guy knew what he was doing. He _was_ good with his hands.

Clint whimpered when he was shoved back this time, but his fingers found their way into the guy’s hair, clutching at its thick softness as he kissed him. Guy might not have been hungry for food, but he had a taste for Clint Fucking Barton. Clint’s big hands framed his face, thumbs skimming over his firm cheekbones and rough stubble. The guy wasn’t having it. He reached up and held Clint’s head still and then tilted it at a better angle to suit him, licking into his mouth aggressively, and Clint was hard as a rock in seconds.

“No one’s felt me up like this since I was seventeen,” Clint admitted raggedly. “Slow down, buddy. We’ve got a little while.”

The Asset broke out of his trance. The sounds around him disoriented him, assaulting him, and suddenly, the man in front of him, became his only anchor. He clutched at him, and words failed him.

“You all right, pal?”

The Asset nodded wordlessly. “I just… need to get off my feet.”

“That’s all you had to say, sweetheart. Follow me.”

Clint led him back the way that they came, ignoring the jeers from the teenagers of “Chicken, BUCK-BOCK!” as they bailed. Clint strode through the crowd, clutching the cowboy’s hand. He was satisfied to notice that he was gripping his hand just as hard, not caring who noticed. The cowboy kept up with his long-legged stride, not the least bit out of breath despite his claim that he needed to be “off his feet.”

They returned to the trailer, which was still blessedly empty. Barney usually stayed out til the wee hours when he went out and drank with Trick, but Clint marched them up the short steps, kicked the door shut and locked it tight behind them before he tugged his houseguest close. Clint fell back against the door and let him plunder his mouth again, and this time, they were both groaning and groping each other.

“You don’t need this on, unless it’s the only thing you wanna keep on,” Clint warned him as he took off his hat and set it aside. His ponytail was messy, but the dark waves had soft, caramel blond highlights in the lamplight. His skin was flush with color, lips a deeper, rosy pink from being kissed. _Guy’s fucking hot. Smoking hot._

“The shirt’s gonna stay on.”

Clint pouted. “Aww.”

“Sorry.”

“We’re gonna lose the pants, though, right?”

The Asset nodded, smirking as he deftly undid the belt buckle one-handed, and boy, did that get Clint hot under the collar. He was staring up into his eyes the whole time, and Clint grinned as he gently shoved him down onto the edge of his narrow excuse for a bed made up with tacky flowered sheets. Clint knelt down and tugged off his boots for him with a rough grunt. “These are nice.”

“They get the job done.”

Sure.

“They sure do. Goddamn it, buddy. Look at you.” Clint surged up from where he was kneeling and pushed himself into his new friend’s space, kissing him with hunger. He captured his chuckle and felt those hands on him, one bare and hot, the other gloved. The latter was tugging his tunic down from his shoulders and pushing it down. Clint’s own hands were gripping the Asset’s thighs, molding his muscles covetously. He worked at the button and zipper while they kissed, and Clint was bared first, feeling the tunic drop.

“Thought you wanted me to keep it on.”

“It looks just as nice on the floor. I need to see you.” 

“Ditto.” Clint tugged at his jeans, and the Asset obliged him by leaning back and letting him get a grip on them, almost yanking him off the bed as he pulled them off.

Beautiful. Just like Clint imagined. Perfect, lithe muscles and skin slicked with fine, dark hair, and right between those thighs, Clint spied that generous bulge pulsing and twitching, lovingly wrapped in black cotton briefs.

“Jesus _Christ_ , buddy. I wanna get my mouth on you.”

The Asset shivered as Clint’s fingers traced the column of each thigh, stroking his sensitive flesh before clutching his hips. He kissed him again, tongue swirling hotly inside his mouth.Clint’s eyes fluttered shut, and the cowboy’s hands weren’t shy about touching him, either. They combed through his hair and roamed over his shoulders and back, and one of his now bare legs wrapped around Clint’s waist, hooking him in. Clint’s hands crept beneath the hem of his shirt, but he stopped him. “Awwww!” Clint complained. “Really? You weren’t kidding about the shirt?”

“It’s. It’s not…”

“There somethin’ you don’t want me to see, sweetheart? I mean, you’re gorgeous. Everything I’ve seen so far, anyway. Or you just shy?”

“It’s not… it’s not that. I just… don’t look at it.”

“Look at what?” Clint cradled his cheek and kissed him softly, stroking the richness of his hair where a lock of it worked itself free of his ponytail. Clint decided to free the rest of it and let it hang down around that pretty face.

“Not my chest. Just… my arm.”

Clint’s face lit up. “But the rest of you’s fair game?”

“The rest?”

“Like, if I just unbutton this? I want the good parts. Trust me, I wanna taste as much of you as you’ll let me.”

“Unbuttoned,” he agreed. “Just let me leave it on.”

Clint beamed, nodding, and he resumed kissed him. He made brief, gentle work of the buttons and sucked in a breath. His cowboy was ripped, all firm abs and perfect pecs. His nipples were hard and sensitive, one more part of him that was very, very responsive when Clint grazed one with his fingertip. “Yeah, gotta let me at that. You’re so damned sweet.”

Every touch was a revelation.

It had been so long since Bucky - the Asset - had been allowed tenderness. Touch. Affection. He wanted to wallow in it and store it in his memory for the future lonely nights. He let Clint continue his tender assault, all groping caresses and kisses that he wanted to drown in. He slid his hand down inside Clint’s briefs, sliding down the satin to let it hammock his thighs. His cock sprang forward, pulsing, rosy and hard, and he shuddered when Bucky gently ringed it in his fist. His flesh felt hot and smooth, pulsing in his grip. 

“You said you were good with your hands, too.”

“You want me to prove it.”

“I know you will, sweetheart. I just want you to hurry… up… ah, fuck!”

Clint stayed on his knees. Bucky kept him trapped between his thighs and drank from his mouth, kneading and groping his ass, which was taut and sculpted from riding and from a daily routine that involved acrobatics, climbing ladders and practicing his stunts. His cock was trapped between them and Clint longed for more friction, but more importantly, he needed to get No-Name on his back, squirming and crying out, and it was tempting to give him his name, just so Clint could _hear it_. But, nah. They weren’t doing names.

He somehow managed to turn him a little and ease him back, stretching out and covering him with his full length. They lay tangled together, and the Asset recognized the need in him. It was familiar, but the last partner he remembered had different eyes, with more green in them. A slightly crooked nose and a deeper voice. More barrel-chested. Soft praise and hot, husky breath rushed out over the Asset’s throat, and he tipped his head back for more. Clint trailed his mouth down over his neck, collarbones, and sternum, pausing at the turgid nipples so he could lave each one. He devoured them, making the body beneath his arch and shiver.

There had been a few. Once in a while, out behind a smoke-filled bar, when Bucky drank kisses as greedily as a glass of hooch after his partner gave him a silent signal to follow them outside. Or the girls - or boys - that sometimes met him after school in his mother’s kitchen for cookies and milk before Becca got home from her piano lessons. He borrowed the egg timer to let him know when to cool it once things got hot and heavy on the damask-upholstered loveseat. There had been those times once he lived with Stevie when they’d experimented a little. Or those nights on base where they weren’t “experimenting” anymore and they knew what they each wanted. The nights in the Army-issued tent were furtive, humid and sweet despite the mosquitoes and the risk of getting caught.

The Asset knew he was due back to the safehouse for debriefing and the dreaded - but necessary - furlough. But he craved this. He would _die_ for it, the way Clint stared up at him through his sandy lashes as he swirled his tongue in his navel and worked his way further down. He traced the line of his groin, nuzzling the dark, crisp hair that peeked out from the edges of his briefs.

“These are comin’ off,” Clint warned. “Right?”

“Mmmmmmmm,” the cowboy agreed, nodding and smirking. He chewed the edge of his lip in anticipation, and that made Clint’s dick kick with want.

Clint made a pained noise and kissed his thighs as he eased back and tugged off the briefs. The cowboy was rosy and gorgeously swollen, and he gently kicked the briefs free from around his ankles. Clint breathed over him and kissed the plump head, barely tasting it. He lipped at it just to watch it twitch and make it bump against his mouth.

“You’re so sweet, cowboy.”

“Do what you want to me.”

The words were raspy and needy, but Clint shook his head.

“Only if _you_ want it. Do you?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?” Clint dipped his head and sucked the head of his cock inside his mouth, barely pulling on it to taste those first tempting, salty drops. 

“ _Yes_.”

That was permission, pure and simple. Clint nodded and drew him inside, sliding down his throbbing length. Bucky - _Bucky_ \- clutched at the pillow beneath his head and moaned for him. His face looked _wrecked_ already, and Clint wouldn’t wait to see how he looked once he was fucking into him, slow and deep. But needed to do this first, taste him and drink him down, and he was damn well gonna take his sweet time doing it.

Clint spent God only knew how long between those thighs, sucking and pulling on him with hunger, bobbing his head over his length and humming over how good he tasted. His hands gripped Bucky’s thighs while his own long legs dangled off the end of the too-short bed, but he didn’t care. Bucky grew lost in sensation as the bedsprings creaked beneath them. His fingers curled themselves in Clint’s short hair and tugged on it, making him moan again around him. He liked that hint of roughness. Good to know. His climax began to mouth, and his thighs stiffened in little spasms as Clint took him higher, faster. He was making a hot, slick, wet mess, drool dripping down onto Bucky’s balls as he kept swallowing down the precum and the salt of his skin. He felt Bucky twitching and stiffening in his mouth, almost gagging a little on his length, but it was good, it was _so, so goooooooood_ , and goddamn it, this was the hill Clint Barton would die on. He was gonna make this guy see stars before he was finished.

The Asset - Bucky - felt his thighs clamping around Clint’s head, and words grew lost in the rush of his climax when it hit him, rattling through his body in luscious, hot waves. His abdomen rippled and he arched up off the pillows, fingers tugging on Clint’s hair again, making him yelp a little, but Clint was swallowing him down, groaning and gulping, barely managing ragged breaths in between. His face was raptured, eyes watering as he gagged, letting Bucky push himself even further down his throat as he released.

The final spasms ebbed, and Bucky fell back, limp and spent. Clint let him slip free from his mouth and gave him one last, cleansing lick before he collapsed. He was breathing hard, head resting on Bucky’s quivering thigh. 

“You’re so goddamned sweet,” Clint told him against. “I hate to tell you this, but I need to come. Is it okay if we…?” He let the words trail off.

“I’d be sad if you didn’t.”

“Yeah?” That beautiful face smiled lazily - smugly - up at Clint, and he sat up, looming over him. “I can’t stand for anyone being sad when I’m around. And you bought me a drink,” he teased.

“Just a root beer.”

“I’m a cheap date.”

“There’s nothing cheap about you,” Bucky corrected him, and he drew Clint down for a kiss that was no less hungry or appreciative than the rest.

Clint broke away from him just long enough to find the box of Trojans and a bottle of Astroglide that was almost empty - Clint had lonely nights, so sue him, okay? - and he settled back down beside him once he slicked up his fingers. Bucky clenched around the first digit that he slipped past the tight ring of muscle, and he looked up at Clint apologetically.

“It’s been a long-”

“It’s okay.” Clint kissed him softly and gave his finger a probing, shallow twist. “We’ve got time.” Bucky made a needy sound. Clint’s thumb gently rubbed over his sac in a sweet caress as he pushed inside him again. Bucky’s dick twitched again with interest. “Wow. You really can go again, huh?”

“Feels good.”

“I wanna make you feel good. I can tell, pal, you _need_ it.” Clint stared down at him, marveling at the laxness of that hard, perfect body and the trust in those gray eyes. “Any other time, I’d be riding that sweet dick of yours, sweetheart, but I saw that ass of yours in those Wranglers, and, well…” Clint pushed a little deeper, enjoying the snug grip his cowboy had around him. “It gave me thoughts.”

Bucky reached up one gloved hand and cupped Clint’s nape, dragging him down for more kisses. He was rewarded with a deeper, twisting thrust of his hand and the curl of his finger. Slowly, carefully, he added another finger, worrying for a moment when Bucky hissed out a breath and bit Clint’s lip in response, but he kissed him apologetically and thrust his hips up at him, a silent request for more. 

Clint stroked him, drawing it out even though he was leaking and throbbing himself with so much need. 

He never would have guessed that he was making slow, painstaking love to the world’s deadliest assassin. Who was moaning and gasping beneath him, eyes widening as Clint found his sweet spot and applied a little more pressure.

“You like that, sweetheart? Yeah, you do. God, I can feel you just squeezing up around my hand… goddamn it, you feel so good. You’re taking me so well, baby.”

Pet names. When had he been called anything else but _Soldat_? A distant memory of another voice, low, panting and desperate, returned to him in a rush. But he dismissed it. He wanted to be present in this moment, fully aware and connected.

This was the Hawkeye, a modern-day Robin Hood. Skillfully getting ready to take him after leaving him a limp, twitching wreck once, already. There were rougher, uglier times ahead. He would let himself have this.

The third finger stung and burned, stretching him and breaking him in. Bucky panted, gasping and sinking his teeth into Clint’s shoulder, but Clint didn’t mind. “It’s okay, let me know if it’s too much. I hope you’re almost ready.”

“I could do this all day…”

“I knew I liked you.”

Clint handed Bucky the condom, and it was hot, watching him open the packet with his teeth. He plucked the slick, latex disc free from the foil and reached for Clint, pumping his length a few times to prime him, almost apologetic for having to sheath him. But Clint sucked in a breath as Bucky rolled the condom snugly and smoothly down over his length.

“Get inside me,” he growled, and Clint nodded emphatically.

“Don’t have to tell me twice.”

“Fuck me.”

“You can tell me that as much as you want,” Clint agreed. “You just go right ahead. Oh, God. Oh, God, baby… Clint lined himself up and slowly sank inside in halting, but smooth thrusts. “I don’t know how long I’m gonna last.” His voice was hoarse. Desperate. 

Reverent.

“Look at you.” Clint gave him a firm thrust, making his head knock back into the pillow, mussing that soft hair and making his eyes glaze over with passion. His pupils were blown, and his skin was so flushed and pretty that it made Clint ache. He framed him with his arms and rolled his hips, building a rhythm. Clint peppered his face with kisses, and those rosy lips pushed back just as desperately, slowly moving down and finding Clint’s pulse. He drew on it, spiraling his tongue against his flesh, and he nipped him, sucking a bruise to the surface. Clint responded with faster, harder thrusts. “Bad boy…”

“Good boy. I can be a very… good… boy.” There was a wicked look in his eyes that stoked Clint’s desire. How could he resist a claim like that.

Well, _fuck_.

“Yes, you _can_. You _can_.” He emphasized the praise with each thrust of his hips, like a tattoo. “Yes, you _can_ , sweetheart.”

There it was. That pet name. Casual. Warm. Bucky and the Asset inside of him both wanted to believe that the archer meant it. That they both meant something to him, even if they never met again after tonight.

The collar of that stifling plaid shirt slipped lower with each impact of Clint’s hips. Bucky;s neck and chest were in full view, bared to Clint’s hungry gaze, but he glimpsed a brief, unsettling pattern of angry red striations fanning out from the edge of the shirt, from one broad, graceful shoulder. Clint’s stomach dropped in horror. _Holy shit._ His hazy expression hardened for a moment as voices chorused in the back of his mind, _Who hurt you, goddamn it?_ ’

Who did Clint have to tear apart?

The group home. A foster dad whose idea of correcting bad behavior involved a belt and the occasional burn with a cigar. Carson’s hired hands who thought it was funny to force a much younger Clint up onto a cantankerous horse and swat its rump to make it run hell-for-leather around the ring, until it pitched him off. Clint’s shoulder still stung sometimes ever since he dislocated it with his landing. Thank God it wasn’t his shooting arm…

Clint recognized abuse. When his new playmate told him he wanted to keep the shirt one, well. It wasn’t the weirdest thing anyone told him to do in bed. It was fine, even though Clint was definitely visual. 

Bucky saw Clint’s eyes flick down to his shoulder, and his own widened in alarm. Clint shook his head. “It’s okay. It’s okay, sweetheart. Look at me. C’mon. Look at my face. It’s okay.”

Uncertainty flickered over Bucky’s features, and his breathing stuttered. His body stiffened, and Clint stopped immediately, settling over Bucky and relaxing.

“Don’t look at it,” he pleaded. His voice was plaintive, almost a whine. His tone lanced into Clint’s heart.

“Fuck. No, baby. I wasn’t. I wasn’t looking at it. I was looking at _you_. Just you.” Clint caressed his cheek, combing his fingers through his hair, smoothing it back from his face. “Just you.”

Bucky’s eyes sparked, and he tried to look away, but Clint kissed his cheekbone, his temple. _Don’t let hm see the things that I’ve done. He can’t know. He can’t see the scars and the blood on my hands._ Not Clint, with his low, rough voice and gentle touch and teasing humor. Bucky knew the man sprawled over him watching him with so much concern wasn’t some innocent babe in the woods, certainly. Not working for this so-called “circus.”

He had a story.

Bucky reached up and covered the back of Clint’s hand with his gloved one. He leaned his face into his palm, kissing his callouses. “Okay,” he rasped. “Just… don’t look at them. Please.”

“All I see is you. I promise you, and I like what I see so far.”

“This is going to have to be enough,” Bucky warned him.

“Is this?” Clint asked him, with a note of challenge in his voice as he rolled his hips, once again trapping Bucky’s turgid cock between their bodies. They were dripping with sweat and the room already smelled like musk and sex. “Is this enough?”

Bucky shook his head, and he leaned up to steal another kiss. “Uh-uh. More.”

“More,” Clint repeated. “You want more.”

Bucky nodded, and he gradually grew lost again in Clint’s building rhythm and his own exploration of Clint’s body. Clint wrapped Bucky’s legs around his ribs and his hips pistoned, driving low cries and gasps from his chest, He gripped Bucky’s dick and pumped it in time with his thrusts, needing to drive him over the edge and watch his face again when he came. Clint felt his own climax building again, and Bucky fit him like a glove, squeezing him in his snug, lush heat. 

“So good,” he grated out. “So good, baby. So damned good, baby!”

Bucky came hard, vision whiting out as he erupted in Clint’s fist, shooting out pearly, sticky strings that spattered them both. Bucky spasmed and tightened around Clint, milking his own orgasm from him, and Clint spilled forth, filling the condom and warming Bucky’s insides. Clint’s hips rocked and jerked their last few thrusts, and Clint collapsed against him, letting himself slip free. They lay together in a heap, panting and letting their hands wander over each other’s overheated flesh.

“Jesus,” Clint panted. “Wow.”

Bucky didn’t attempt to form words. He just burrowed his face into the side of Clint’s neck and hooked his thigh over Clint’s in a gesture that was almost possessive. Clint huffed a laugh. Well. _This is fine._ Clint’s fingers found their way back into Bucky’s hair, and he caressed it, combing through it with his fingers until he drifted into a stupor.

Clint must have fallen asleep first.

He awoke to the window being cracked open and the door locked… and an empty bed.

The cowboy hat and Tony Lamas were nowhere to be found. Clint’s sheets still smelled like the cowboy, but the source beat feet. Well. It wasn’t like Clint didn’t expect it.

No phone number scrawled on the mirror or any note. Guy was long gone.

Clint rolled up out of bed with some difficulty, pulled on a pair of jeans and grabbed his towel. He headed to the showers to wash off the funk of sex and the last of his makeup and glitter. He caught his reflection in the mirror and briefly touched the purple hickey on his throat. Clint’s lips twisted up in a little smile.

As far as closing nights of the carnival went, this one wasn’t all that bad.


	3. As Far As Your Fears Are Far Behind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Among the international community and the world’s network of espionage, the Winter Soldier was rumored to be a ghost. No one who saw him escaped with their lives.
> 
> ...Clint knew that he liked to cuddle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Yeah. We’ve arrived here. I hope you’ve enjoyed this. I’d like to thank drgirlfriend for the wonderful prompt. I hope this wasn’t too clunky for you.

As Far As Your Fears Are Far Behind

Summary: Among the international community and the world’s network of espionage, the Winter Soldier was rumored to be a ghost. No one who saw him escaped with their lives.

...Clint knew that he liked to cuddle.

Author’s Note: So. Yeah. We’ve arrived here. I hope you’ve enjoyed this. I’d like to thank drgirlfriend for the wonderful prompt. I hope this wasn’t too clunky for you.

Stark still hadn’t let him live down the sequins.

“All right, Barton. You’ve got no place to talk shit to me again about my red and gold suit - which is my trademark, by the way - if you could wear that minidress out in public.”

“Not just in public, but in front of a paying crowd who came to see the World’s Greatest Archer,” Clint corrected him dryly. “And it _wasn’t_ a dress. It was a _tunic_.”

“Bullshit. The only thing missing are a pair of Vivienne Westwood pumps and a Coach purse. And is that _body glitter_.”

“Okay, number one, guess you’d know about the purse, and number two, yes it is, and _fuck you_.” Now Stark was just being mean. “Everybody wore glitter back then, damn it.”

“It’s like you stepped straight out of an episode of _Solid Gold_ ,” Bruce teased, but there was no malice in his voice. “It’s actually kind of a look.”

“Showed off my arms,” Clint agreed as he poured half the pot of fresh coffee into his commuter cup. The fact that he wasn’t alone in the Tower’s common room was the only thing keeping him from swilling it straight out of the pot. Manners and unsanitary, and all that jazz. Natasha grinned at him from across the room where she cuddled her cat, Liho, on the couch. An episode of _The Great British Bake-Off_ played on the big flatscreen, and she looked surprisingly young wrapped up in a purple hoodie and Hello Kitty fleece blanket.

Clint had particular feelings about Nat peeking over his shoulder while he was rummaging through some old stuff back at his Bed-Stuy apartment. The old carnival poster turned up in one of his old duffels, and the memory of her doubled-over laughter still disgruntled him.

“Hey. You’ve seen me look worse.”

“Clinton. Darling. I’ve never seen you look more _fabulous._.”

“Okay, now. Quit it.”

And he promised he was planning to burn the old poster when he got around to it. Sneaky Nat knew that threat rang hollow, since Clint _never_ threw anything away; being a foster kid and living in and out of group homes and traveling with a circus for so many years made him a packrat and _very_ protective of his crap. So of _course_ she got a hold of the poster and hung it up in the common room. Tony was on a roll from the moment he walked in the room and gave Clint _so much shit._

It felt weird, looking back at that person and seeing a stranger.

The circus took him all over the country in rickety trailers. SHIELD took him around the world. Clint hadn’t lived his life so far; he’d _survived_ it. He opened the refrigerator and glanced around the shelves, not even particularly hungry, but enjoying the liberty of looking. Of having choices. He automatically reached for the box of leftover pizza, wondering how the heck he’d overlooked it. He wrinkled his nose in distaste when he noticed the sundried tomatoes, artichokes, spinach, and a bunch of other veggie crap that told him that Nat and Bruce got delivery last, but that wasn’t stopping him. Clint separated a thick slice from its brothers with a rough tug and bit into it, making Tony groan.

“You don’t even heat it up first? What are you, a heathen?”

“M’ungry,” Clint lied, shrugging. “It’s fine this way.”

“More importantly, you’re eating that instead of breakfast?” Bruce pointed out.

“This _is_ breakfast.”

Nat wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “This isn’t a hill you want to die on, Tony.”

“Sure ain’t,” Clint mumbled through another mouthful. “Lemme enjoy my pizza in peace, for chrissakes.”

As though he’d borrowed trouble by speaking it into existence, FRIDAY informed them from the intercoms, “Boss, I have a call from Director Fury.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Well, there goes my hot stone massage.”

“I can always rebook it,” Pepper assured him as she walked past the doorway.

“No!” he whined. 

“Tony,” she warned in her Mom Voice, giving him the patented Pepper Potts Look. Tony sighed raggedly and gestured in the air, pulling up a holographic monitor. Fury appeared in the middle of the common room, seated at his desk. A commuter cup of coffee sat by his elbow, and he was stroking a large, purring marmalade tabby.

“Good morning,” he offered as he scratched his companion behind the ears. “I’m glad I have you all in one place so I don’t have to make as many calls.”

“Thor’s off-world,” Bruce reminded him.

“So is his all-seeing friend, Heimdall,” Fury reminded him. “He sees and knows everything, so our Asgardian friend won’t remain in the dark for long.”

“Steve and Sam aren’t here, either,” Natasha pointed out.

“They’re playing hooky,” Clint said.

“They’re already aware of my news, since they’re the reason why I’m calling,” Fury told them, sounding bored. “They’re collecting your new teammate. SHIELD sanctioned his recruitment into the Avengers.” He paused. “In return for a full pardon of his… previous activities.”

“What’s that, now?” Clint straightened up from the couch, pizza forgotten.

“Rogers and Wilson are finally coming back in from the field. Their search for Captain Rogers’ fellow combat veteran, one Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, is officially over. SHIELD reached an agreement with the World Security Council once we confirmed it with the Wakandan authorities -”

“The who, now?” Clint interrupted.

“Wakanda. An isolated island nation that is technologically superior to northern America in every way documented or conceivable, Mr. Barton. As I was saying, the Wakandan authorities have confirmed that Sergeant Barnes has completed his rehabilitation program and mandated community service, and they have deemed him ready to rejoin society as a contributing member. Given his unique skill set, the World Security Council decided the best way for him to contribute to society is to join the Avengers.”

“Hold up,” Tony snapped. “The Council decided that, or Rogers decided it?”

“It’s moot,” Fury told him, giving him a stony glance with his remaining eye. “Consider this an opportunity for you to continue to prove that you _can_ play well with others, Stark. The good sergeant will be joining the team, posthaste. They’re en route and due to arrive in less than six hours.”

“What do we even know about this guy?” Bruce wondered aloud.

“His alias,” Fury said, shrugging.

“Excuse me?” Nat paused in stroking Liho’s back, and a little furrow appeared between her brows.

“The intelligence community knows him as the ‘Winter Soldier.’”

Nat paled. “Boszhe moi…”

“That’s supposed to be a big deal, Fury?” Clint challenged. “Who cares if he’s-”

“Clint?” Nat’s voice sounded desperate, and it immediately chilled him.

“What?”

“Budapest.”

“Wait… what?”

Clint lost his appetite _entirely_.

“Holy _shit_.”

*

Fury reassured them it was a friendly introduction. Casual.

Clint and Natasha showed up to the Quinjet hangar dressed in full uniform and flak gear. Tony had one of his suits on standby mode. Bruce sipped a mug of decaf green tea and hung back as the jet let down its wheels and careened neatly down the short runway. The breeze ruffled their clothing and hair, and they noticed Steve and Sam’s smiles through the windshield, tense and uncertain. Clint felt Nat’s tension, thicker than quicksand.

“This guy’s really the one,” he muttered.

“Sometimes, it still stings.” She was talking about the entry wound. Roughly an inch long, the scar was a glossy, translucent white against her healthy, rosy flesh. Nat wore skintight combat suits or workout gear with full confidence, but she still eschewed bikinis to this day.

Clint remembered the way the light died in that scientist’s eyes as he crumpled in Nat’s arms. Clint caught them both once Nat realized that the round went _through her_ before it took his life.

Clint only saw the fleeing shadow down the corridor, but he ignored Nat’s raspy cries to go after him. When your best friend is bleeding out, well. It’s not even really a _choice_.

“Welcome back, Cap,” FRIDAY chirped as the ramp descended, letting Steve stride out first. He reached for Tony, shaking his hand and giving his shoulder a warm clap.

“Haven’t seen you in a minute, Rogers. Nice tan.”

“It’s nice in Wakanda around this time of year,” he offered. “Sam wants to build a vacation home there.”

“If they even let us back within their borders,” Sam joked. “Security was pretty tight. I picked up some nice souvenirs, though.”

“Nice,” Bruce replied.

“It was.”

“There was this one souvenir that we had a hard time getting through Customs,” Sam added as he nodded toward the ramp.

Heavy black combat boots descended the metal ramp, and Clint’s eyes tracked over the long, well-muscled thighs and narrow hips garbed in lightweight black tack pants, a royal blue jacket with straps and buckles across the front that made it look a little flamboyant, and -

Clint’s mouth went dry. “Holy _fuck_.”

His outburst made Steve’s easy smile falter. Sam huffed.

“This is Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes,” Steve told them.

“So we’ve heard,” Nat told him dryly. She sized him up coolly as he approached.

His cool, blue-gray eyes widened as he took her in. He murmured something in a language that Clint vaguely recognized as Russian.

Natasha smiled, a tidy, tight expression. Her palm flew out and struck him, hard enough to make his face snap sharply to the left.

“I accept your apology,” she told him brightly. Then, she turned on her heel and left the hangar. Clint’s expression wavered, and he clenched his fists at his sides. Before he could stop himself, he blurted out, “So. You gonna apologize to me, too, pal?”

“That depends,” he told him in plain English. And those familiar eyes swung Clint’s way, assessing him. Measuring his reaction.

“On what?”

“On how hard _you_ hit me.”

Steve looked appalled. Sam looked like he wished he had some popcorn. Tony was intrigued. Bruce simply looked confused.

“Well, this has been interesting. It was nice to meet you, Sergeant.”

“Bucky,” he corrected him. “Just. You can call me Bucky.”

“That’s different-”

“C’mon, Banner. We’ve got a date in the lab,” Tony informed him as he dragged him out by his lab coat sleeve.

“It was nice to meet you!” Bruce attempted, calling back to them over his shoulder.

“I was going to suggest this steakhouse Sam knows,” Steve told Clint.

Clint just stared. His scalp felt tight and his stomach twisted itself into knots.

The sonofabitch was just as handsome as ever, and he looked like he hadn’t aged a day. The short, neatly trimmed beard was a change from how Clint remembered him, and his hair was a little longer, shinier and healthier looking. But the most remarkable thing of all was that _arm_.

Metal. Gleaming metal, like obsidian, grooved with gold plate everywhere that it articulated or bent. _What_ , Clint thought, _the fuck_? Clint had a flash of memory. Of his left shoulder. Those strange, angry, reddish scars marring his perfect skin. Clint remembered how protective he’d felt of this guy.

Now, he just felt like a dumbass.

“Have fun, assholes,” Clint muttered. He strode out of the hangar, needing to get himself in front of a range with some arrows in his hands to clear his fucking head. He felt those luminous gray eyes follow him out, and it chafed.

“Okay. That went well,” Steve mused.

“I’ll have the steakhouse set the reservation for three,” Sam offered as he punched the number into his phone. He looked for all the world like a man whom nothing else could possibly surprise. _This is just my life now, living and working with these chuckleheads._

*

Clint kept his distance. His Bed-Stuy apartment’s four walls provided him with a refuge to just think, or do whatever passed for it. Lucky occupied his lap, periodically flapping Clint with his tail and staring up into his face adoringly while Clint read the briefing on his laptop.

The good sergeant was one of the original Howling Commandos. Clint knew that much from the Smithsonian exhibit, sure. Guy looked wholesome and cornfed in his picture. A school field trip when he was twelve taught him the sanitized version.

The briefing, though. _Shit._ There was so much - too much - that Clint couldn’t unsee.

SHIELD uncovered the files from one Dr. Arnim Zola. Guy was a goddamned quack. Head of HYDRA’s research division. A peer of Goebbels and Mengele. The tales of Sergeant Barnes’ heroic death had been greatly exaggerated. HYDRA formed a recon team that descended the crevasse where the Sergeant - Bucky? - was last seen. The plummet from the freight car robbed him of his memory and most of his left arm. There was no way in hell the guy shoulda walked away from that.

Except that SHIELD - no, they were something else back during the war, Clint knew that, he’d skimmed it - didn’t take into account that HYDRA already knew what they needed to know about the Super Soldier serum that created Captain America, even if they destroyed the original sample. They brought Cap’s best friend (holy crap) in from the cold and treated him like a science fair project, and then sold him off to the Russians, who trained him to be their pet assassin. Okay. Because just the _torture and brainwashing_ weren’t enough by themselves to unpack.

The guy in the bleachers, in the good seats. The ambulance sirens in the parking lot. One neat, perfect shot to the temple. The man who ducked out of view like a shadow, just the merest glimpse of dark clothing and hair. The memory careened back to Clint and slammed on the brakes. That was _him_. There was no denying it. Clint could attest to the guy’s precision. So could Nat.

And now, Fury said this guy was “rehabilitated.” What the hell did that even mean?

Natasha could take care of herself. She’d made that clear enough. Her little souvenir assured that she’d never let him get the drop on her again. Call it “incentive.” Would she hold a grudge? Time would only tell. 

_Fuck_ , though.

Just.

What the _fuck_.

No matter how he worded it in his head, it sounded so messed up to Clint.

_Hey, Natty, I might’ve answered a booty call from the Winter Soldier back in the day. Like, right after he killed a guy in the parking lot at my old job. No hard feelings, right?_

That didn’t sound terrible at _all_.

*

“Barton’s been making himself scarce.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

“Stark has had the coffee pot to himself all week long. You didn’t notice that?”

“And Dog Cops hasn’t been on the TV in at least that long.”

“No pizza boxes left under the couch.”

“I just put up brand new targets on the firing range. They haven’t been touched. Okay. I kind of hate this,” Tony piped up. “Somebody go get Clint and bring him back here. I nominate Nat.”

Natasha looked bored as she fiddled with her phone and sweetened the last cup of coffee from the pot. “Maybe he doesn’t want to be brought back.”

“You know that for sure?”

“I’m just putting the suggestion on the table. Nobody can make Barton be where he doesn’t want to be.”

“Well, you of all people _can_ ,” Tony pointed out.

Steve looked uncomfortable at the breakfast table, brow furrowing over the edge of the newspaper.

“Not by choice. Not without consequence. Barton’s a big boy. Maybe he needs some time to decompress.”

“Mind sharing with us why?” Steve inquired as he lowered the paper and carefully folded it.

“I can’t share what I don’t know.”

“But you think there’s something to know.”

“I didn’t say that.”

All the while, she typed away on her phone. 

“Quit hyperfocusing on Clint and why or why not he isn’t here,” she suggested. She pushed away from the counter, grabbed her black motorcycle jacket, and breezed out of the kitchenette. “Go find yourselves something to do.”

Because she had to strongarm her best friend out of a crisis.

*

When Natasha reached Clint’s apartment, Lucky was whining and scratching at the door. She knocked on the door, waited several seconds, then knocked again. “Clint. Clinton Francis. I know you’re in there.”

She waited, then knocked again as a courtesy before she picked the lock. The hinge squealed slightly, and she tsked under her breath. “You need to put some WD-40 on that,” she called out. “Clint. Cli- oh, good Lord.”

He lay buried under a pile of blankets and fast food trash. Empty beer bottles decorated every surface. The room smelled stale, and Lucky skipped and jumped up, begging for a walk. Clint was unshaven and was the principal source of the “lived in” smell that pervaded his space.

“Didn’t have the chance to pick up a bottle of wine or a cheese tray. Make yourself at home, Natalia.”

“O-kay.” Nat set down her helmet on the table and automatically started collecting beer bottles and paper bags, wondering how long it would take for the regret to kick in, let alone the hangover. “This isn’t a good look, buddy.”

“Nnnnnggh.”

“That’s not an argument.”

“Hell, no, it ain’t.”

“Why are you having a meltdown?”

“Natty. Ya don’t even wanna know. I don’t even know how to explain this.”

“It can’t be any worse than you and Bobbi getting remarried a third time. Or getting involved with Cherry. God, _that_ was a mess. Or-”

“This is worse,” Clint said, more forcefully than she expected. “Just take my word for it. This is so much worse.”

“Worse than either of those things…” Her voice held suspended disbelief. “Go on.”

“I don’t even know how to explain this.” He dug the heels of his hands into his eye sockets and gave them a hearty rub, then scratched his stubbly jaw. “I know that ‘self-preservation’ isn’t really a thing with me. I mean, I’ve gotten better. But… let’s say, back before SHIELD, back when Barney and I only had each other, I might’ve done some batshit crazy things.”

“You mean, aside from being in a circus?”

“That was the tip of the iceberg. I mean, you know me, Nat. You _know_ me.”

Natasha sighed, then nodded as she sat down on the edge of the coffee table. She leaned over and took his hand where it was absently clutching at his nubby football blanket.

“I won’t judge you. You know that.” Then she amended that claim, giving him her best lazy smirk. “Well. I won’t judge you _much_. And I’ll still talk to you.”

“I’m okay with that. You promise?”

Nat held out her pinkie. Clint hooked his around it, and they shook on it.

“Spill.”

It came out in a rush.

“BackinthedaywhenIwasinthecircusIsleptwiththeWinterSoldierbecausehewashotandIdidn’tknowhekilledaguy.”

Nat’s smile dropped. She nodded hollowly and stood up, expression completely blank.

“Nat?”

She circled the coffee table and went to the dining room table, picked up her helmet and purse, and walked toward the door. Lucky whined low in his throat.

“Natty?”

She closed the door after herself, just short of a slam, squealing hinge and all.

“Kiddo?” Clint called, way after the fact.

“Okay,” he muttered. “Okay. That went well.”

*

_The next day:_

“Still no Clint?” Rhodey fiddled with the remote, scrolling through the satellite stations.

“Nope,” Bruce confirmed, popping the ‘p.’

“Shouldn’t we be concerned?”

“Nope,” Natasha told him simply.

“I mean, did you get to talk to him?” Bruce continued. “He seems a little shaken up since Steve and Sam brought back-”

“I know that. Quit making assumptions. He’s fine,” she snapped as she finished peeling her banana.

“You seem a little… off.”

“M’fine,” she muttered around a too-large bite.

Bucky proved her wrong just by walking into the room. He was dressed casually, in jeans and a white tank that left his remarkable arm in full view. His hair was tied back from his face in a loose ponytail, and he’d shaved since his arrival. He looked impossibly youthful and fresh, even though his eyes still held onto old horrors. There was something vulnerable in the way he held himself. 

“Is it okay if I join you?” His initial greeting was a request for permission. Because _of course_ it was.

“Feel free,” she told him, but she refuted this claim by scraping back her chair and abruptly leaving the kitchen. 

Bruce eyed Bucky apologetically. “Coffee?”

“Black,” he specified.

“You’re a man after Barton’s own heart,” Bruce teased. “He’ll drink it straight out of the pot if you let him.”

“Just a cup.”

“Help yourself.” Bruce waved him toward the pot and held open the cabinet, letting Bucky select a mug. “That’s some impressive cybernetic equipment you’re sporting there, Sergeant.”

“Just call me Bucky. That’s… that’s just who I am now. I’m not really a soldier anymore. Not… not like I was.”

“No. I get it. I do. And y’know… it’s okay. You’re not the only science experiment in the building.” Bruce’s smile made his soft brown eyes crinkle. “Gamma rays aren’t a good substitute for Vita rays, apparently. The military thought they were making progress on the next Super Soldier formula and ended up with something a little more mean and green.”

“How do you live with it?”

“It’s a part of me. I can’t not.”

“I wasn’t sure I wanted to come back. Steve insisted. I just… I never meant to leave him behind. I never wanted him to follow me into the military, but he was a stubborn punk, and there was just no stopping him. And I’ll be the first to admit something right now that might piss him off.”

“What’s that?”

“When he followed me… I never wanted him to have to watch me die. I always knew there was a chance. That’s why I wanted him to stay safe at home. Getting a letter from Uncle Sam that I lost my life in the line of duty like a good little soldier would’ve hurt him, but he didn’t need to see me go down like that. We’ve talked about it. I never wanted him to follow me into hell. Into complete, goddamned madness. Not my Stevie.”

“That’s what you don’t seem to realize about Cap - I mean, Steve,” Bruce told him. “He would’ve followed you pretty much anywhere. I mean, that’s been his mission for the past two years. And hey, here you are.” 

Bucky didn’t look comforted by any of that.

“Welcome aboard?” Bruce attempted.

“Thanks?”

“It might take the others a little while to come around.”

“Might not happen. I’ve accepted this.”

“Oh, don’t say that-”

“I ripped Sam’s wings apart. I shot Natasha in the field in Budapest while she was trying to protect a scientist I had a contract out on, and I lived my life as an assassin for the past seventy years. And I may have traumatized Clint when I shot a man at the circus he worked at when he was younger.”

“Oh. That’s all?” Bruce quipped, but he looked disturbed as he sipped his tea. Then, “Wait. Clint. When he was younger?”

“It’s a small world, after all,” Bucky offered. “Am I still welcome, Dr. Banner?”

“How much younger?”

“He looked old enough to buy beer. He never gave me his name. Just went by ‘Hawkeye,’ even back then.”

“Did he know who you were?”

“No.” Bucky contemplates his coffee. “I was a ghost.”

That made a chill rattle down Bruce’s spine.

*

Bucky planned to remedy that.

The shooting range was expansive, and expensive. Bucky recognized Stark’s logo and brand everywhere, from the wall decor to all of the panels, switches and door panes. Guy had a thing for red and gold.

Clint had a narrow, upright quiver in the floor full of arrows of much better quality than the ones he had at Carson’s Carnival, but all that mattered to him was the sound they made when they hit the yellow center of the target. Just a satisfying _thunk_ , one after the other, until his arm and shoulder began to burn. The image of the Winter - wait, of Bucky - and that damned arm of his wouldn’t flee his thoughts, or the look he’d given him, like he was just as much at a loss as Clint for how to explain things. 

“I’ve been pretty busy since our one-night stand,” Clint rehearsed dryly and under his breath, because he always thought out loud while he was shooting. “Avenging’s more honest work than grifting. Benefits are better, too. I’ve even got dental…” Clint huffed a laugh. “Yeah, that… that sounds lame. So, hey, what have _you_ been up to, baby cakes? What’s your sign? I know this might be premature, but do you like dogs? Jesus, what’s wrong with me? Get your head out of your ass, Barton. You could’ve left me your number? Or told me you were a professional killer? That’s a helluva pickup line if I ever heard-“

“You’ve got dental?”

The voice was soft, deep, with a faint Brooklyn accent like Steve’s. And since it came out of nowhere, it scared the crap out of Clint.

PHHHTWOINNNG-TWHIPP! Clint’s arrow flew wild as his arms flailed, and he whirled around in confusion.

“GAAHHHH! What the fuck?! Don’t DO that!”

Bucky’s smile was filled with amusement entirely at Clint’s expense, a little crooked, and it made those amazing eyes crinkle at the corners.

“Please tell me you at least kept the outfit.”

“Hell, no. Nat won’t even let me live down the poster. That thing’s rotting in a thrift shop somewhere.”

Bucky grunted, shrugging. “It was a look. You had the legs for it back then.” He paused a beat. “Bet you still do.”

Clint flushed under his gaze, realizing that it was filled with a mixture of admiration and hunger. 

“You have a great ass for an assassin.”

Bucky’s smile thinned, and he rubbed his nape, suddenly finding the floor riveting.

…”thanks?”

“You can find your way out, right?”

“I can,” he agreed, and was that regret Clint detected in his voice? “I was kinda hoping we could talk, but…” He let the words trail off, and Clint just kept shooting his arrows.

“Don’t figure we’ve got much to talk about and get caught up on, pal. Unless you wanna hear about alien invasions, or tell me your side of the story about…” Clint heard the soft click of the door from across the room. He glanced over his shoulder. Bucky was gone just that quick.

“Budapest,” Clint finished. 

Okay. Guess he wasn’t gonna get much by way of “closure,” at this rate. 

“Never fuckin’ mind,” Clint muttered under his breath.

That same weird, charged feeling that he remembered from the moment they met, the one that gave him little prickles and raised the hairs on his arms… yeah. It was back, with a frigging vengeance. _Not helping matters any,_ he coached his body as he nocked another arrow. _Don’t crush on the killer. Don’t crush on the killer. No, Barton. Natasha will gut you._

*

Okay. 

_This looks bad._

Clint woke up to his body’s chorus of bruises and cuts. Clint tried to walk back his day and kept coming up empty. How hard had they hit him?

His wrists burned when he tried to move them; his shoulder felt like he’d dislocated it (again), and he could feel the bite of the cool, plastic zip ties. Wrists and ankles. Right. Standard job. At least they left his hearing aids alone. Clint had the feeling an interrogation was in his future.

Someone had been watching him coming and going. Clint retreated to Bed-Stuy to check in on his tenants and to pick up Lucky from Simone. His last mission with the team in Singapore went down smoothly enough, thanks in part to Sergeant One Night Stand. While Clint infiltrated the AIM base from the air vents, Bucky took point from the rooftop. His bullet caught the technician holding down his position by the control panel right between the eyes before Clint could even line up his own shot. _Show-off._ Clint didn’t look back up at him, not wanting to give away his position, but he knew Barnes was probably smirking at him, looking all pleased with himself, with those little crinkles around his eyes and that wicked dimple showing in his left cheek.

He and Steve moved like a unit, covering each other’s backs. Poetry in motion. When Steve took down two technicians with his shield, Bucky caught it as it ricocheted off the wall, flung it back and took out the goon on Steve’s six just as he aimed his gun. Only other guy Clint ever watched catch Steve’s shield without catching damage themselves was Thor. Fuckin’ _Thor_. Fuckin’ Barnes with that fancy fuckin’ arm, man. (Not that Clint was noticing, anything. Or, y’know. Drooling.) 

Barnes kept showing up to everything. Briefings with Fury. Workout sessions. Sparring sessions, even with Nat, which… okay. Neither one of them seemed to have any qualms about kicking each other’s asses. Sure beat awkward attempts at conversation, right? And when they did talk, it was in _Russian_. The change in the dynamic between them happened so fast it made Clint’s head spin. 

He kept showing up in the common room on movie night. And he kept sitting in Clint’s favorite chair, just to fuck with him. That happened six movie nights in a row. On the seventh, Clint took unbrage.

“Hey. Move your skinny ass, Barnes. That’s my spot.” Clint set down the pizza boxes on the coffee table and folded his arms, hovering over Bucky and cocking one sandy brow.

“What? This spot right here?” Barnes manspread on the couch, draping his arm across the top of it and letting his knees splay open wide. He gave Clint a lazy smile, which… okay. He needed to stop that. Clint felt his cock squirming to life in his jeans.

“You know,” Clint accused. 

Bucky’s smirk went up a notch. “Don’t see your name written on it, buddy. Sorry. Looks like it’s fair game.”

“It’s got my ass prints on it, then!”

“Turn around, then. Let me make sure.”

“I’ll show you when you get your ass _up_.”

The resulting scuffle was undignified but satisfying, until Steve separated the two of them, _damn it_. Barnes shot Clint a wicked look from around Steve’s shoulder and thumbed his nose at him. Clint stuck out his tongue and in a boss move of his own, walked out of the common room with _all of the pizza_. Clint spent the rest of the week asserting dominance of that couch, re-establishing his ass prints right where they belonged. (He wasn’t keeping an eye out for Barnes every time he went in there. He _wasn’t_.)

Back to his regularly scheduled programming…

“Ow,” he muttered. His voice was a painful rasp. “Fuck…”

Judging by the lack of a window, maybe Clint was in the basement. He smelled the sickening, coppery scent of his own blood and something he couldn’t be sure wasn’t stale urine. He just hoped to God it wasn’t his.

Before he could orient himself, a harsh, bright light clicked on with one of those old school, metal pull chains, and Clint found himself looking up the length of a pair of shapely legs encased in silvery white spandex and a ridiculous pair of go-go boots. He let his eyes keep traveling up, until they landed on the familiar, eerie, gleaming gold mask. He imagined its owner smirking at him from behind it, but, well. The mask. It was her thing, just like purple was his.

“Hey, Mads.”

“Madam Masque,” she corrected him. “Don’t get cute.”

“Hard not to. I mean, have you seen this face?”

“I’ve been saving this for you since the last time we hung out, Barton,” she told him smoothly, right before her fist connected with his jaw. His face snapped around sharply, and he spit out a thin gout of blood from his split lips.

“Rude…”

“No. What’s rude is when your data thumb drive of all of SHIELD’s operatives that you’ve already won in an auction and paid for to the tune of one-point-two billion US dollars gets stolen by a couple of archers pretending to be Avengers. Really puts a cramp in my plans, Barton. The nerve of you two.”

“The nerve of me, you mean. You leave Hawkeye alone.”

“The hell we will. My contacts already have her in our sights, ready for extraction. And sanction,” she bragged.

“Yeah, well goodie for you.” Clint hissed as she pressed a finger firmly into a bruise on his cheek, and he spat into her face. The glob of foaming, bloody spittle ran down the side of her mask, marring its polished shine.

“Ugh! Oh, my God, I’m gonna kick your ass for that… know what? Never mind. Just tell me where the thumb drive is, and I might not throw you out the twentieth story window.”

“I dunno, baby doll,” drawled another unwelcome voice behind him, thickly accented and smug. “Bro looks like he could fly if we untie him first.”

“You’re not untying him. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Clint sighed and craned his head around. The enormous mobster looked deceptively laid back in the red and black nylon track suit. “Hey, bro. Long time, no see, bro. You owe me a dog.”

“I wouldn’t trust you fuckers to take care of pocket lint. Lucky’s mine.” And Clint grinned up at Madam Masque. “That thumb drive ain’t anywhere that you’re gonna find it. You think I haven’t been tossed out the window before, darlin’?”

Heights didn’t bother Clint. That was a given, growing up in circus, rigging up tents, testing tightropes, practicing with acrobats, climbing up into the vents when he was working as a mole on some of Carson’s other jobs, and later SHIELD’s.

“Tell us where it is, Barton.”

“It’s up his ass,” Clint told her, nodding to her partner.

She sighed, then shrugged. “Right. So, we’re doing this.”

Masque motioned to her partner, and he barked at two of his men in the doorway, garbed in identical track suits.

“LL Cool J called from 1989, he wants his hat back,” Clint mocked when he got a load of the Kangol one of them wore.

They grabbed the arms of the rolling chair Clint as tied to and hauled him out into the hallway, and onto an elevator. Clint fought the urge to smile. It was good to know his vantage point, just in case anyone wanted to retrieve him, or anything. They got on, and Clint chanced a glance at the round fish-eye mirror in the corner, just as one of the goons checked his phone. Clint caught the date and time stamp on the big iPhone screen, telling him they’d likely had him for at least ten hours. They got out on the penthouse, which shouldn’t have surprised him. Clint wasn’t giving them any points for creativity. 

“Are those couches real leather?” he inquired as Masque let them in by placing her palm on the security reader panel, letting it scan her fingerprints. “They look like naugahyde.”

“Shut up.”

“I mean, if you’re gonna pay the money, and I know you’ve got money, you were the high bidder on that drive, make sure they aren’t selling you naugahyde. That’s what happens when you get the stuff that fell off the back of the truck.”

“Watching you drop is going to be worth it after listening to your mouth. They don’t pay me enough to deal with you, Barton, I swear to God.” She rubbed her nape, scraping back her long fall of black hair. 

“Gonna get my dog back too, bro.”

“Like hell you are, lugnut. Lucky’s mine, I already told you.”

Clint squinted up at her as they wheeled him closer to the enormous floor-to-ceiling window and undid the lock to open up the lower pane. The stench of the streets below wafted up toward them on the cold spring breeze, and Clint’s gut knotted up. The cars looked like ants from this high up.

“Is that bling on your mask?” Clint muttered suddenly. “You didn’t have that little red thing on there before, did you? Is it a garnet?”

“What?” Her voice was incredulous. “Where?”

“Right between your eyes.”

He heard her sharp intake of breath before she shouted, “Shit… GET DOWN! NOW!:

She leapt back, just before the heavy artillery bullet shattered the pane, showering all of them with glass. Clint jerked back as quickly and as far as he could manage, only succeeding in falling sideways onto the floor.

He squirmed and jerked, until his back faced the decimated pane, and he worked his burning wrists against the jagged edge of the glass, managing to cut the zip tie. But before he could work on his feet, Sergei - what mobster walked around with their name embroidered on their windbreaker? - hauled him up by the neck.

“Time to fly, bro.”

“Let’s not be hasty, buddy!”

“Not your buddy, bro. Got a long memory, bro. Gonna go back to my building and take it over again. _Triple_ the rent.”

“Get bent,” Clint grunted. He was beginning to see spots, and the floor felt like it was spinning beneath them. The open air was waiting for him just past the window frame. But then Sergei and his partners ducked the hail of fresh bullets, forgetting about him for a minute. Masque was ducked behind the couch, which now sported a few bullet holes.

_Shit. It is real leather._ It was a shame. They looked like nice couches.

And just when things couldn’t go any further sideways, Clint heard Barnes yelling out, “HAND!”

“Hand?” Clint repeated, incredulous.

He heard the sound of a repulsor blast, and before he could blink, one of the gloves to Tony’s Mach X suit flew into the penthouse through the broken window, neatly encasing Clint’s hand. The repulsor glowed a blinding gold as it charged up to full power, its plates shifting and conforming to Clint’s fingers and grip.

“Biological signature recognized: Barton, Clinton. Codename: Hawkeye.”

“Ain’t much of a codename if you give my real one away,” Clint mused. “Hi, FRIDAY.”

“Hello, Hawkeye,” the AI chirped back at him through the interface. “You’re looking a little rough.”

“Awwww, I’m fine.”

“This is just your typical Sunday afternoon,” Bucky drawled as he dropped in through the balcony, dressed to the nines in the blue flak jacket. The top half of his hair was pulled back into a bun, and his voice was calm, but his eyes zeroed in on Clint’s wounds. “This is what happens when we let you walk around unsupervised.”

“Fun happens. You’re just jealous that you missed it, Buck-O.”

Masque pulled her tiny pistol from her leg holster and aimed it at them. “Two for one. I’m fine with killing more Avengers today. The world won’t miss either of you!”

She screamed as Bucky shot the gun from her hand.

To Clint’s shame, his dick hardened in an instant.

“Don’t just stand there like idiots! Take them out!” she roared. 

Clint dove out of the way, just shy of the top of the coffee table as bullets began to fly. But two more shots rang out, and Bucky disarmed the other two thugs neatly. _Literally._ One of them would go by “Lefty” for the rest of his days; the other howled, clutching his ruined shoulder. There was way too much blood, and Clint felt sick.

“I’m gonna hate this more than you will, Barton. And I’m sorry,” Bucky offered.

“What,,,?”

“Other hand! FEET!” Bucky yelled, and before Clint could suggest that Bucky help him out of the other zip ties, another armored hand and two repulsor boots snapped themselves into place on his body. Bucky reached down and grabbed him around his trunk and dragged him quickly toward the balcony before Madam Masque could recover and reach for her gun again in her remaining good hand.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky cried out as he pitched them over the balcony railing, flinging them out into the sky.

Life really did flash before your eyes when you thought you were gonna bite it, Clint realized.

His first bike. His fifth birthday. That time Barney jumped off his end of the see-saw and sent Clint crashing down on his ass. Clint’s first circus act as Hawkeye. His short, fractured marriage to Bobbi. The day that Coulson handed Clint his new hire papers and SHIELD security badge. 

The first time Lucky licked his hand.

Freight car hot dogs and root beer on a steamy summer night. 

That sound Bucky made in Clint’s ear right before he came all over them both.

The windows of the buildings around them were whizzing by too fast, and all Clint felt was the air rushing at them, tearing at their clothes and hair and the tears their plummeting forced from his eyes as he screamed all the way down, at least until the draft took his breath. 

“Squeeze your hand, Clint!” That was Bucky, just as breathless and desperate, arms clutching him impossibly tight. His eyes were dilated and filled with the horror of what he had done, and … and…

Clint squeezed his hand, triggering the repulsors. Their descent slowed as the jets in the gloves and boots fired, and Clint felt his body spinning at first, but then their descent and angle corrected itself as FRIDAY finally did her job. She flew them neatly above the heads of the stunned crowd below, and they careened through the air on autopilot.

“We’re taking you straight to medical, Hawkeye,” she informed them. “Your heart rate is elevated too, Sergeant Barnes.”

“I’m fine,” he lied.

“I’ve already notified Dr. Banner and Dr. Cho,” she assured him anyway.

“You’re holding onto me pretty tight,” Clint told Bucky.

“Is that a problem?”

“Nah.”

“Good.”

*

Okay. Rogers was bad enough when he was just making his Dad Face and giving all of them lectures on any of his usual topics, but watching him launch into Mother Hen Mode as soon as he met them down in Medical was equal parts embarrassing and comical. He checked them both over, alarmed by all the blood, and Clint could tell he was panicking, wondering how much of it was _Bucky’s._ As soon as they landed on their feet, Clint collapsed, but Bucky caught him against him again, unwilling to let him go that quickly.

“I have you, Clint…”

“Can’t walk.”

“You don’t have to- fuck, Stevie, I’ve got him!”

“Like hell you do, Bucky!” Steve barked as he gently, but firmly took Clint from him and carried him like a goddamned baby to a waiting gurney. “You need to be checked out, too!”

“No, I don’t.”

“Don’t argue with me, Buck.”

Steve’s face was closed off, and his eyes were burning with some emotion that Clint couldn’t put his finger on. That’s when it hit him.

Bucky was holding on by a too-thin thread after falling.

Scratch that.

After falling _again_.

Given what Clint knew now, from the briefing, and from his fifth grade field trip, it wasn’t a good idea to fling his old booty call out the window again any time soon. He was still shivering, eyes still wild. Haunted. He kept reaching for Clint, wanting to check him over, but Steve kept planting himself between them.

“Go. Decompress. Get cleaned up, Buck. If you don’t wanna get checked out, that’s fine for now. Even though you should.”

“It’s okay, Buck-O,” Clint assured him through cracked lips. “I’m fine. Doc’s here,” he added, nodding to Dr. Cho. She looked sharp in her long, white lab coat as she approached to take Clint’s vitals. FRIDAY ran her own diagnostic, monitoring Clint’s organs and heart rate as soon as he entered the infirmary.

Bucky didn’t look convinced. He gave Steve a little shove out of the way, joined Clint’s side for a moment, and reached for him. His flesh hand smoothed down Clint’s hair, which was now a disheveled wreck, and he leaned down and kissed him oh, so gently, heedless of his audience. Clint whimpered, reaching up to touch that soft fall of hair at his nape, but before he could enjoy it, Bucky pulled back and left the infirmary, stomping out in those heavy boots.

Steve just stared down at Clint, at a loss.

“Rogers,” Clint told him, “I ain’t got the time or the spoons for a shovel talk. Please don’t look at me like that.”

Okay. This looked bad _again_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. Originally, this was going to be three chapters. I need to epilogue this a little, because the last chapter had a lot packed into it, and I realized when I got past the really plotty part, I still wasn't finished.
> 
> One more chapter to go. Hopefully quickly. Thank you for sticking with it this long.


End file.
